gloomy silence and, as the factory clock chimed six strokes, the women packed their bags, collected their wages and walked out grim-faced, into what they’d believed would be a brave new peaceful world, and now wasn’t looking quite as good as they’d hoped.
‘Have you considered asking for a job here at the Co-op?’ This question came from Steve Allenby, an old friend who had returned from the war some time ago with serious injuries. Cathie was helping him to organise a Christmas concert in the Co-operative Society rooms above the shop, and had casually mentioned the fact that she’d lost her job, although she felt she really had no right to complain too much. A V1 rocket had exploded close to an airfield where Steve was working in Holland. It had so badly damaged his leg an amputation had been necessary. He now had an artificial limb on his right leg from the knee down, and walked with a slight limp. He was making a good recovery, if still suffering from pain and post-war traumas, looking even thinner and more raw-boned than when he was a scraggy kid. But then losing a leg was far more serious than being dismissed from a job, however worrying that might be for her.
In between blowing up balloons that were piling up all around them, she turned the idea over in her head, a little hope lighting up within. Could that be a possibility? Shewondered. Cathie knew that in the past the Co-operative movement had supported workers during strikes, as well as throughout the war, keeping tally sheets for folk who couldn’t settle their household bill till their next wage was paid. Whether they would be willing to offer her a job was another matter entirely.
‘I’m not intending to work here for ever,’ Steve was saying. ‘I do have other plans. But Cyril Leeson, the manager, generously kept my job open and I’m proud to be employed by a business that has been in operation since the mid-nineteenth century and an important part of the community. They are expert at juggling prices to suit customers’ needs, give dividends, and run holiday clubs in which money can be saved for Wakes Week. Generally a week in Blackpool, as we know.’ He laughed.
‘I do approve of their Christmas club, which has helped me to finance this expensive season by saving up in it week after week,’ she said, thinking of her dream to make this the best Christmas ever for Alex. ‘Unfortunately, my skills are more concerned with checking tyres.’ She gave a dry little laugh. ‘Can’t see that being of any use slicing bacon, butter and cheese, let alone keeping track of people’s accounts. I’d be hopeless.’
‘Probably you would at first, but with a bit of effort you might at last learn to count, and even add up.’
‘Cheeky!’ she snapped, playfully punching him on the shoulder.
He laughed as he ducked, in case she tried again. ‘Itrained as a junior instructor in the army and eventually became a trainer myself, doing a lot of work with small arms. What has that got to do with cheese? You’d soon get the hang of it, Cathie. It’s plain to see that you’ve grown much more confident and capable as a result of this war.’
Was that true? Cathie rather hoped it may well be. She had changed quite a lot over the years, gaining considerably more courage and faith in herself. Had Steve noticed that in her, or was he playing her for a fool yet again? They’d been friends from childhood, as he came from the same rough area as herself. But although he was fun to work with at these charity events, she still had her reservations about him.
She recalled how once he’d built them a tree house down by the River Irwell, and persuaded her to climb up and sit in it. Then he’d dashed off to play with his mates, leaving her stuck up the tree, too afraid to climb down without assistance. Hours later, soaked to the skin from a downpour of rain, she was rescued by Sal who came looking for her. Steve claimed he’d meant to return but forgot. Knowing
Editors Of Reader's Digest